


a study in recklessness and impulsive decisions that (eventually) turn out okay

by magicandlight



Series: The States [18]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: F/M, I Tried, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, This probably sucks, does this count as a remix, i wrote most of this on a caffeine high at three am
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-02
Updated: 2018-10-02
Packaged: 2019-07-23 23:16:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,257
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16168793
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/magicandlight/pseuds/magicandlight
Summary: or, the events of part 3 of (i don't know how not to love you) in Sam's point of view





	a study in recklessness and impulsive decisions that (eventually) turn out okay

**Author's Note:**

> see end notes for warnings

_October 1900_

It's Halloween and it's too loud, too much, so Sam sits on the beach with a bottle of tequila and lets the vastness of the ocean make her feel small, lets it help her forget about responsibility for a while.

•••••••••••••••

Sam's been called reckless a lot in her life.

She had always been so angry as a colony, a forest fire waiting to happen. Alfred had looked at her and given her more than she could ever repay and tried to soothe her fury.

She'd lit a match when she protested taxation and lit another when the British attempted to strangle the rebellion out of her. She had thrown crates of tea into the harbor and let revolution burn across the colonies. She had worn her rebellion like a crown and her scars like medals of bravery. She had flung herself into battles without hesitation.

Back then, she'd been mostly trying to be something else- she'd been sick of Alfred getting that far-away look when he looked at her, she'd been sick of the way he used to say that she looked just like him, sick of the way she used to be proud of that.

She'll always remember Alfred, fever-delirious, looking at her and seeing green eyes and saying  _England?_  in that sad little voice, and the way her heart thudded to the ground.

She had never hated anyone more than in that moment, when she realized England had left Alfred alone for so so long. (It wasn't the same with them and Alfred, because Alfred had  _looked_ , Alfred had found them and held them close and never truly let go.)

Her recklessness was replaced with a steel-edged survival instinct  _after_.

She had looked at the kitchen knives and thought  _maybe_ , maybe if I can just  _stop_  for one night it will be better in the morning.

Sam didn't pick up the knife.

She didn't drown herself in the bathtub.

She made compromises like this: you can hold yourself underwater, but you can't drown. And then later, when she takes advantage of Brooke's protective instincts: you can go out, but you can't drink. You can't make eye contact with just anyone. You can't show too much skin.

( _Metaphors_ , Brooke said, waving a hand dismissively as they lied on the kitchen floor at three and the morning.  _You can drown in emotions, too, you know. They can choke the air out just as well as the water can_.)

But  _this_? Sam isn't reckless like this. Even  _before_ , she'd handled the hearts of the people she loved carefully. After, she'd gotten more careful, if anything.

She shouldn't be looking at Foster, trying to sort his emotions out like he's a puzzle in need of solving.

•••••••••••••••

The thing about seeing some of the worst humanity has to offer, you get paranoid. You become hyperaware.

So Foster says  _You were overprotective. But you tried. You tried so fucking hard all the time, Sam_  and she turns to look at him.

She's good at picking up cues because she'd spent years expecting violence, constantly bracing for a fight she couldn't afford to lose again. ( _Does it ever go away?_  She'd questioned, wrapped in Adrien's arms. He closed his eyes.  _No_.)

So she studies him and catalogs his emotions with a detached sort of calm. Sincerity, honesty, affection.

Which to be fair, are all things he's had before. But he turns to look at her, and she thinks  _oh_.

Because that's exactly how Brooke used to look at Luce, how Adrien looked at her, how Adam looked at Nicky.

_Don't make rash decisions. Don't be reckless with this. Think. Think. Is this worth the possible fall out. Is this going to hurt him. Is it going to hurt you._

She sets the tequila down, and says his name.

When he looks at her, she kisses him.

•••••••••••••••

It's a bad idea, it's probably going to ruin the fragile peace they'd built, but Sam doesn't stop it.

She doesn't stop Foster as he kisses her, desperate but gentle. Her heart thrums in her chest when he braces his forearms on either side of her head to keep his weight from pressing against her too much, but it's fine right now so she leaves it alone. She prefers to focus on fisting her hands in Foster's shirt, untucking it to get at the skin beneath. She splays her hands over his back, pressing to feel the ridges of his spine under her fingertips.

Foster pulls away dusting kisses over her neck, light enough that she barely feels them.

He kisses her again, lips parting against hers, and Sam tugs his lower lip between her own, revels in the soft noise Foster makes.

(Her head reminds her of a time she'd bit someone else's lip, except she'd used more force that time, had drawn blood and snarled with a mouth covered in blood, barred reddened teeth. That little bit of rebellion had gotten her head slammed back into the floor but she had kept fighting anyway-)

 _No_ , Sam thinks. _Not right now_.  _Not this moment_. She forces her mind out of the past and into the present where Foster is brushing kisses over her jaw, over her cheeks.

He looks at her with wide eyes and she says  _yes yes yes._

•••••••••••••••

Morning comes and Sam panics.

She panics because what if this messes them up, they were doing so well they haven't fought the way they used to in years and she can't go back to the fighting.

Sam forces herself into an eggshell-thin calm and collects her clothes, mechanically putting them on.

She freezes when Foster makes a soft noise, crossing the room with silent steps so that she can kneel beside the bed.

She tucks the blanket around him, and then, before she can think better of it, kisses his cheek.

Foster stirs, but he calms when she brushes his hair back in a soothing gesture. 

 

_November 1900_

Sam avoids Foster until she can't anymore.

The breaking point turns out to be Thanksgiving, when Foster grabs her wrist and starts pulling her away before she can make up some excuse.

She pulls her wrist out of his grip as soon as possible, crossing her arms over her chest and leaning against a bookshelf.

Foster takes a deep breath. "Okay,  _what the fuck_ , Sam? What, did you just wake up after and regret it or something? Seriously, what the fuck-"

Sam blanks at the fact that this isn't a _let's pretend this never happened_ conversation, blurting the first thing that comes to mind. "I didn't regret it."

That stops him in his tracks.

Foster raises his eyebrows. "Then what?"

Sam looks away from his expectant look.

_Think. Think. Is this worth it do you want this is this okay?_

"I'm better at running than staying."

He blinks. Her gaze flickers up to meet his.

"But I didn't regret it." She repeats softly.

She leaves before he has time to react.

 

_December 1900_

Foster is tucked into one of the window seats in the library with a book when she finds him, and she knows she startled him even though he tries to hide it.

She sits against the other wall of the window seat.

"Can I kiss you?"

Foster goes completely still with a shocked noise.

Sam gives him a moment. 

"What."

She leans against the window. "I asked if I could kiss you, but it's okay if you don't want to."

"Right now?"

Sam shrugs. "I doubt anyone's going to come looking for a children's book this late at night." She leans in slightly, and Foster closes the distance without hesitation.

His fingers are so gentle on her jaw, like he's afraid she fall apart if he doesn't handle her carefully. She breaks the kiss to breathe, but stays close enough that her nose bumps against his.

"Can we sleep together?" Sam opens her eyes to give him a bemused look. "Just sleep." He clarifies quickly.

She nods, and lets him slip his hand into hers.

•••••••••••••••

It is both reminiscent of the nights Foster had climbed into her bed to ward off nightmares and not at the same time.

Back then, she had still been taller, if only by an inch. Back then, Foster had never tried to touch every scar within reach.

He brushes over the back of her neck, and his fingers touch the edge of one of the whip-scars, and she doesn't tell him there's no need to be so gentle, she can't feel much through the thick scar tissue etched over her shoulders.

He moves onto her arm, where there are only a few smaller scars dotted over the skin, and then to her hand. Foster traces over her callouses, and then over the scar on her palm.

He frowns at the scar on her palm. "What's this one?"

- _a cross on the floor, the chain glinting in her hand as she grabbed it, clutched so tightly in her hand that blood dripped down her forearm and onto the blood-covered floor as she prayed and prayed and prayed_ -

"I don't remember."

Foster nods, lacing their fingers together.

Sam doesn't have nightmares that night.

•••••••••••••••

Foster taps her ribs. "What happened to your cross?"

The mayflowers had been her first tattoo, the cross had been her second.

It'd barely been bigger than the one she wore around her neck.

It had taken a decade of neglecting it for it to fully fade, and the day the last of the ink had disappeared she had gone to Brooke and they had cracked open the good wine to celebrate. Adam hadn't been able to hide his relief when she told him it was gone.

She shrugs. "I didn't want it anymore."

Foster trails his fingers up to the hollow of her throat. "What about this cross?"

 _Her necklace_.

Sam swallows. "It's somewhere at the bottom of the Atlantic."

That was what Connie told her they'd done with it. She hadn't told her much of what became of the man, except that he was dead. Brooke had told her how one night when Sam woke up screaming and pleading and coped by chainsmoking with shaking hands. She'd told her about the blood, the box of trophies, and how they'd flung them into the ocean off the Connecticut coast.

Foster blinks, clearly surprised.

She thinks of the first cross she'd worn, the one that dangled around Foster's neck now. She'd always thought he'd thrown it away back when their relationship had soured, but when he'd taken off his shirt on Halloween it had still been there.

She tugs on the chain now, gently, knowing how old it is. "Why do you still wear yours?"

"Because it's lucky." He looks away from her eyes. "You gave it to me."

The second cross had been given to her by Alfred to replace the one she gave to Foster. He'd given it to her for her second statehood anniversary. Thirty-two years later, it had been stolen with her trust and self-respect.

"I'm not lucky."

Foster shrugs.

It would take the truth to change his mind, and Sam isn't ready to give that up just yet.

He reaches over to snag the chain of her star pendant off his nightstand and holds it up.

"What's this from?" He'd slipped her star over her head last night and set it on his nightstand, saying she'd strangle herself if she slept in it.

His change of subject isn't subtle at all, but she goes with it. "Connie. She charmed it."

Foster pokes at like it might burn him. "With what?"

"She put protection charms on it. The iron is supposed to restrict magic and the emerald is meant for balance and truth."

Foster hands the star so she can fasten it back around her neck.

His fingers brush over the place where there was once a cross tattoo and he opens his mouth to say something- to ask another question.

Sam doesn't want to talk about crosses anymore. She kisses him, and then kisses him again until he stops asking questions.

 

_February 1901_

Foster is asleep, and Sam brushes her fingers over the cross pendant. 

She hadn't forgotten why he said he kept it.  _Because it's lucky_ , he'd said, so simply.  _You gave it to me_. 

 

_July 1901_

"What are we?"

Sam stops braiding her hair to look at him. "What?"

Foster picks at his cuticles. "Like, are we dating or what?"

Sam smacks away his hand. "Stop that, you'll make them bleed."

"Sam."

She bites her lip. "I guess."

Foster grins at her.

 

_October 1901_

Foster touches her distractedly, like half the time he doesn't even notice he's tracing patterns on her knee or pressing his fingertips to her wrist. He tugs her into his lap and wraps his arms around her, rests his head on her shoulder. He kisses her freckles  _all the time_ , like he's trying to kiss every single one. 

Sam will just be sitting there sometimes and Foster will reach over and hold her hand, and every single time she thinks _I can't lose this_.

 

_March 1902_

The nightmares are getting bad again. They do that sometimes, just flare up for no reason at all.

She wakes up with a bloody mouth from where she bit her tongue and shaking hands. 

She's glad for the fact that Foster isn't a light sleeper.

•••••••••••••••

She tucks her head into Foster's side after breakfast, and he stops talking to Cam to look at her because usually, she isn't this publicly affectionate. 

But she's tired and she just wants to sleep and Foster's comfortable and warm and safe. She curls into a ball, tucking her feet under Foster's thigh. 

After a moment, Foster's arm wraps around her shoulders, gentle fingers brushing through her hair. 

 

_April 1902_

Sam always goes still when she has nightmares, and she'll stay still unless she's touched.

Touch seems to be the thing that pushes her over the edge, the thing that tricks her brain into thinking it's real, and therefore it was one of the earliest things deemed off limits when she had dated Adrien.

In the dream, Sam is helpless when hands tangle into her hair and slam her head into the wall, when teeth bite into her shoulder, when heavy weight pins her to the ground.

When she wakes up, Foster is holding his eye where she hit him when he touched her.

•••••••••••••••

She can't look at Foster, at  _the black eye she gave him_  without feeling sick. She can't stop apologizing, even after Foster gives her that smile and says it's nothing. 

 

_September 1902_

Foster is waiting on her doorstep when she comes back from getting groceries, and Sam grins at him.

"Hey, grab my keys."

He takes half her bags in silence and hands over her keys, and Sam hums as she unlocks the door.

She dumps the bags on the kitchen counter and turns to kiss Foster.

He stops her with a gentle hand on her shoulder and she just  _knows_  that he knows from the look he's giving her.

He's looking at her like she's a crime scene.

_And suddenly she's a fifteen-year-old girl in shock, lying on the floor, and-_

_No. No panic attacks. Breathe._

Sam steps away. "Who told you?" Her voice cracks and she was supposed to be  _done_  with _this_.

"Sam-"

" _Who told you?_ "

Foster shuts his eyes as her voice cracks again. "I figured it out and then asked Connie. She didn't tell me, but her reaction was enough."

That's something at least. That her sister hadn't told her secret. She hits against the counter and sinks down to the floor. Foster drops to his knees in front of her.

Sam's shoulders shake as she suppresses tears. Foster pulls her closer until she's practically in his lap with her head buried in the crook of his neck.

And he holds her as she cries.

•••••••••••••••

People almost always treat her differently after they know. 

Connie and Adam had treated her like she was made of glass. Adrien had gotten hesitant. Alfred had practically smothered her with affection. 

She's waiting for Foster to change, for him to get overprotective or distant. 

Sam's getting her pajamas out the next night when he finally brings it up. 

"Do you want to talk about it?" His voice is soft, hesitant, the same way he talked to that dog he found in the alleyway once. 

Sam shuts the drawer a little too hard. "Talk about what?"

"About how you're a-"

She interrupts him before he can say it, before he can throw the label she's spent decades trying to get away from back in her face. "I swear, you say victim and I will walk out that door and I will not come back." 

"Survivor." Foster finishes.

Sam's hands shake- the one nervous tic she could never train away- and she closes her eyes.

"One question. You get one question." She bites out.

He doesn't even hesitate. "What should I never ever do? Like, what would make you flashback?"

She hides her shock with apathy. "That was two."

Foster shrugs. "They're the same question."

Sam leans back into the dresser and stares at a point on the wall. She didn't like telling people details. They always got that look, like some part of their soul had been gutted. The only person she'd ever really given any details to was Brooke, who'd accepted all the shattered glass pieces of Sam's trust and self-respect without flinching from the sharp edges. ( _Brooke laughs, and such a nice noise doesn't belong in the dark of four in the morning. "Sam, spend enough time with knives and you learn to stop being afraid of sharp edges."_ )

"Don't pull my hair." She says, and winces internally. 

Even that basic statement says more about what she'd experienced than she wanted to. 

Foster nods. "Alright. That's all?"

She hesitates. "Don't pin me down." 

He'd never done either of those, so it wasn't even an issue. 

"Okay." He opens his arms and Sam doesn't hesitate before letting herself fall into his arms. 

 

_October 1902_

"Why is this okay?" Foster blurts out, clearly drunk.

Sam leans against his shoulder. "Because out of all the questions you could have asked- when, where, who- you asked what not to do."

 

_November 1903_

Foster is laying his head on her stomach as she reads and Sam runs her fingers through his hair, continuously brushing it back away from his eyes. 

He props himself up on his elbows. "Sam?"

She moves the book to look at him. His hair looks ridiculous with how much she'd messed it up, but his eyes are soft and warm like melted chocolate, the way they get when he's gonna say something sappy. 

"I love you. You don't have to say it back now, but I wanted you to know."

Sam drops the book off the couch and sits up to kiss him. 

 

_December 1903_

She's probably loved Foster for a while, it's just been brought to her attention when he told her he loved her. 

It's Christmas morning and he spent half of it challenging Marisol to sock skating races down the hallway before they both ended up crashing into the wall and Del yelled at them. 

It was ridiculous and strange and oddly cute. 

Sam nudges him and waits for him to look at her before she says it. "I love you too."

He just blinks at her in shock for a minute before he's grinning.

**Author's Note:**

> tw: implied rape, past suicidal thoughts


End file.
